Newborn Pink

By Shawn Wayne Langhans

Paulie Galamb is the hapless hero of this story, no matter if he likes it or not. The unattractive, unassuming divorcee was good at his job as a taste-tester of lab-grown meats - until his body turned against him.

All Paulie ever wanted was to live his boring life inside the We-Store storage facility. Now, that dream is tossed out of the window, after a simple dental procedure takes a turn for the weird and he notices a strange growth in his throat. What's even weirder is that the tumor can speak.

While Paulie tries to sort out the absurd, cancerous situation, he finds out that the corporation he works for is prepared to go to any lengths to silence him before he reveals their secrets; what those secrets are is unclear to Paulie.

Embracing his own mortality, Paulie has to navigate a maze of off-beat neighbors, homeless teenage bullies, evil middle managers and a mysterious man who might or might not be who he claims to be. But can he find his way through and live to tell the tall tale?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022

Book preview

PART 1

When people are ready to, they change. They never do it before then, and sometimes they die before they get around to it. You can't make them change if they don't want to, just like when they do want to, you can't stop them.

― Andy Warhol

1

THE TALKING HEADS

And What They Said

Good morning, Midland! We’re here with some good news for all you out there that are sick of this dreary rainfall-

Tesla stocks are on the rise again since the multi-billion-dollar merger with Ama-

In local news the Midland Robins have won the state playoffs-

From farm to table might be an outdated saying in the near future what with the rise of the lab-grown meat industry. We’re with Pea Tree Farms spokesman, Arnold Workman who is here to talk about the launch of their newest product-

Hey there Midland, it’s Primo Perry here at Perry’s Primo BMW with some exciting news for you!

-study shows that the radiation could be coming from the Chumquah fields, however these reports are disputed by the tribe-

-and KGVT News will be back after these brief messages from our sponsors, Pea Tree Farms-

The bartender, having heard enough of the same-old same-old, turned the flatscreen television off, and awaited his nightly patrons. While he put away the last of the pint glasses, the door chimed with the entry of two friends. First came the dentist, then appeared the weatherman, and not long after that the prior shared with the latter a story about a man.

A very loveable, albeit very ugly man.

2

ITS STARTS IN A DENTAL ENGINE

And Ends In A Field Of Meat

The man in white poked across his mouth, and the patient swallowed. No doc, not there, he tried to say, but with the various metal tools in his mouth, the statement came out without consonants. Ohh ocgh, odd ‘ere.

Can you open just a little wider? Just a little bit more.

The dentist seemed to be asking Paulie to dislocate his jaw. I’m not as young as I used to be, he wanted to joke, knowing that were he to attempt to say that he’d likely spray the dentist with saliva and only be able to pronounce the vowels. Instead, he stretched his mouth open, feeling that same painful click he’d been experiencing every time he yawned. A squishy pop, not unlike pressing down on the base of your thumb with your opposite hand’s pointer finger and other thumb.

Quap, his temporomandibular joint said, quietly, while he accidentally gleeked his spittle on the dentist’s face shield.

Okay, now hold that. Hold. Right there is perfect, he said, ignoring the saliva sliding down the clear plastic separating Paulie Galamb and his dentist. Paulie tried hard to focus on the spit itself, and not the mole under the dentist’s left eye. It looked like a tiny inverted square tear or maybe the state of Indiana, painted freckle brown. He was not sure.

Thoughts of Indiana left his mind when the dentist poked something soft, something spongy. Something that was most certainly not made of tooth. Something certainly not wanting to be poked or prodded. Paulie made this clear by yelping under his breath and coughing the dentist’s hands from his mouth. For a moment, Paulie thought he heard the dentist whispering into his mouth, but he was not sure.

Well, it’s not an infected pocket. In fact, there’s hardly a pocket at all. Mostly just the fresh regards of future scar tissue, the dentist reassured him, placing one tool down and grabbing another. Paulie half-glanced at the metal tool in his hand and couldn’t help but imagine it as some kind of double-sided fishhook with a pen-sized metal rod between each stabbing implement. Was this the Gracey Curette or the Curved Sickle Scaler?

He only knew these names because before his visit he wanted something to distract him while this man fooled around in his mouth-hole or lack thereof. Earlier in the week he had borrowed a trivia book that only captured his attention when he flipped to a page about the various odd names of dental equipment. There he took it upon himself to learn the names of the tools of his mouth-hole doctor’s trade.

With one hand, the dentist stuffed the mouth mirror back in the deep-far-down area where his wisdom tooth used to sleep undisturbed for forty years before some unexpected pocket of pus formed and inflated and forced this man to pluck the sneaky bonus bones from his jaw. The infection had pushed on the slumbering wisdom tooth, which pushed on his molars, on his canines and incisors. For forty years, his teeth had been good enough for television, but after this muck-up, he was considering orthodontic assistance. Right now, he was considering pushing away the doctor, and leaving this place, but he knew the pain would only follow him home.

However, I am also seeing no signs of scarring or tissue damage, which only concerns me, he said, putting emphasis on the word ‘damage’ by poking him somewhere in the back half of his throat with the Curette or the Scaler, because I am also not seeing any evidence that there ever was a wisdom tooth here.

With his mouth once again dentist free, Paulie used it to form words with both consonants and vowels used in unison. Well, that doesn’t make a lick of sense.

You’re not wrong, Mr. Galamb. As I recall, I was the one that plucked that pesky poker out of you less than two weeks earlier.

Paulie remembered. It had been less than two weeks. Nine days by his count. It was high on his list of his most painful experiences ever experienced in his forty-seven years of life. Worse than the double-clavicle break of sophomore year. Worse than his first and second hernia. Worse even, than his divorce five years earlier. For him anyway. He imagined Toni was doing just fine wherever she was in Central City at this point.

But the pain of having that damn tooth pulled nine days ago was not as bad as having his catheter being removed by his angry father when he was seventeen, after Paulie had drunkenly crashed his dad’s Volkswagen into his dad’s wood-working shop.

Yeah, don’t remind me. After that, I called about the dry socket a few days later but that disappeared after four days. But then the swelling just never went down. I mean, how long does it usually take for this to heal?

Mr. Galamb, perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. I am not seeing any signs that I pulled a tooth from your mouth. No scar tissue, no hole.

Then why am I feeling the same pressure still? I can feel it when I yawn, when I chew, when I swallow.

Not that he had been chewing much lately. In nine days since he had his bastard wisdom tooth removed his diet had mostly consisted of blended meals. Swallowing had grown so painful that he had taken to eating like a duck, by staring up at a lightbulb while he poured the liquid meals down his gullet, trying to not choke and his spray his liquid food about while he did it.

It had been greatly affecting his work, his livelihood, as a food product tester.

Try to imagine testing a revolutionary new lab-grown meat product that had to be blended into a liquidy pulp just so you could judge it by its flavor and imagine the look on your boss’s face when he has to tell the lab-coats that the results were non-conclusive because you gagged on the slurry when you tried to swallow it. Sue Ellen, his supervisor, having to send him home because he couldn’t do his job.

Imagine the embarrassment you’d experience if your boss refused to allow you back to work until you saw a dentist again. Or a specialist. Whatever it would take to get those tastebuds back to tip-top shape.

Not that his pain affected his taste buds, no, he could still taste his pain.

The doctor put the back of his blue-gloved hand to Paulie’s forehead, Well, you don’t seem to have a fever, Do dentists use thermometers? But I do believe the back of your jaw is quite swollen. I’m not sure if it’s your lymph nodes, no, too far back, or if maybe it’s a keloid. Most likely that, he said without an air of certainty.

What’s a keloid, doc?

The doctor set his tools down on the tray, with Paulie being able to name the obvious Tartar Scraper next to the Dental Pick and Probe, next to the Mouth Mirror. Though he was still unsure whether that last one was a Gracey Curette or the Curved Sickle Scaler. The doctor turned his back on Paulie, took his face shield off, and changed his cloth mask underneath it.

A keloid is, hm, essentially an angry piece of scar tissue. However, the lump over the area where your wisdom tooth had been pulled doesn’t look like your typical keloid. It’s, how do I say, larger than I am comfortable with. Normally I would expect to see a convex indentation or a slight divot. At the very least, I would expect to see the stitch marks.

But?

But here, I see nothing. And instead of convex, I am seeing concave. I see no evidence of stitches, no scars, just a mass, said the dentist, grabbing a prescription pad and a pen from his pocket.

A mass? Paulie asked, while the dentist scrawled out something on the pad of paper.

I believe it to be a tumor, Mr. Galamb. However I am afraid that this is not my area of expertise. An X-ray from me may confirm my suspicions, but beyond that I am of little help for you further. I am going to recommend you to a specialist, just to be sure.

What kind of specialist, Doctor? Paulie asked, while staring at the freckle of Indiana under the dentist’s left eye.

I think it best for you to see Dr. Fejes. He’s my wives’ oncologist. I think you should see him about this mass in your throat. Could be nothing. Could be benign. You never know until you get it checked out, he said, handing Paulie a slip of paper. On the paper was the name, ‘Doctor Joseph Fejes, Oncologist’ followed by a phone number. Elsewhere on the paper was the phrase, ‘Medical Prescription Form’ and the letters ‘RX’ in the corner.

Oncologist, Paulie said solemnly. That’s the cancer doctor right.

The dentist used his foot to press the pedal on the dental engine, raising Paulie from the dead like some kind of ugly Frankenstein’s monster. I’m afraid so. Now I don’t mean to worry you, Mr. Galamb, I just think you should see Dr. Fejes as a precaution. Could be nothing. Could just be a pesky keloid. Yes, I’m sure that’s all it is. I mean, I’m not sure. You should go see this man at your earliest convenience.

When Paulie sat up, he felt and heard his stomach gurgle, which the dentist heard as well. Paulie tried to hide his discomfort, but it was wildly apparent. You can’t hide the Indiana birthmark any more than you can hide the fear in the face of a man who was just told Maybe it’s cancer? Nor can you hide the hunger of a growling belly from a man who just had his hands down your mouth.

In lieu of the gurgles heard, the dentist stuck his hand in his pocket and plucked out a tiny red lollipop. He held his hand out to Paulie who was busy putting his jacket on.

No thank you, doc.

I insist. It’s a red one. Red ones are my very favorite flavor. It’ll cheer you up. Always works for me. I eat one of these every time I feel glum, and let me tell you in my line of work, that happens fairly often, the dentist said, smiling. It seemed disingenuous. Paulie couldn’t help but appreciate how perfect this man’s teeth were, any more than he couldn’t help but glance at the freckled state of Indiana one last time before he left. Paulie reluctantly took the lollipop and made for the exit.

Oh, one more thing, doctor, Paulie said, wanting to ask the dentist why he found himself so sad so often, but he realized he had no place. Instead, he asked about the metal things the dentist had put in his mouth.

Yes?

That last tool, Paulie said, pointing at the small aluminum tray, Was that a Gracey Curette or the Curved Sickle Scaler?

The dentist gazed down at the tray of tools and used one gloved finger to stir them. As he swirled his finger around the sharp tools, moving them about in no particular order, he said I really don’t know anymore, Mr. Galamb.

Paulie quietly left without a farewell, while the dentist continued to move his single finger through the tray of metal dental tools, longingly. The dentist, he stared until he knew not what he was looking at. I’m afraid that if you look at a thing long enough, it loses all of its meaning. Semantic satiation in the physical sense. When the door closed behind him, the dentist pulled out three red lollies, hastily unwrapped them, and bit down hard on the lot of them with his dentures.

Later that night the dentist would stop by the Ol’ Watering Hole for a drink or two or three with his good friend Tom. Tom Hedasky you probably knew from the ten o’clock news as Tornado Tom, a nickname earned by risking his life filming a twister back in his early days as a meteorologist. Together Tornado Tom and the dentist would probably not reflect on their dormitory days spent together nor the age difference between them nor would they talk about teeth or tornados.

Instead, they complained about their lives wasted, and their professions that most others hated. Nobody appreciated Tom for lying to them in front of a green screen, and nobody ever truly wanted to be lying in the dentist’s chair, while they lied about how much they flossed their teeth and gums.

Here, they sat together as old friends here in mutual understanding of one another’s self-loathing. These two men, they understood their roles in society. To be needed, but also that meant to be hated. Their professions were the crosses that they chose to bear.

The difference here was that the dentist was just getting off work, whereas the weatherman was due for work in an hour’s time. The dentist peered at his reflection in the amber beer mirror below him, looking past the State of Indiana, and thought of his last patient.

Tom, today I worked on the ugliest man I ever saw again. A real doozy of a face. It’s haunting me right now.

Oh yeah? Tell me about him, Tornado Tom said, looking at his own handsome face in his own amber beer. With the two of them staring at themselves, the dentist told the story of Paulie Galamb.

He was a very honest man. That much can be said. He was among the very few to tell me he hasn’t flossed since college, and Tom, let me tell you, I believed him. Thinking back to the stinking breath that no cloth mask or face shield could cover.

Somehow the dentist told details of this man that he had no right to know. Of where he lived, of how he lived, and that which lived inside him. Patiently the meteorologist listened while the dentist spun his yarn.

You got a moment, Hedasky? Can I bend your ear for a moment?

You got a moment, reader?

3

WE-STORE STORAGE

And Those Who Remain

Paulie was one of three legal residents at the We-Store Storage Units because he had been grandfathered in, so to speak. After so many years of living here it was only recently starting to feel off-putting. When he first bought the condo here six years ago, he had done so in an attempt to save his marriage, to give his wife just a little more space. A year after that purchase, his wife left him and then We-Store moved in. The storage company had offered everybody in the condominium complex a sizeable sum to get up and go, and almost everybody did.

Everybody except Paulie, Niles, and Edith. Normally, the company wouldn’t allow three people to hold up the construction of a large multi-block storage complex, but their three condos were at the end of the giant structure and could be left standing without the company losing too much ground. We-Store still had to pay them out for the inconvenience of turning the rest of the condominium complex into a gated storage facility. The only catch for the three condo-owners was an agreement that they would rent a storage unit each. These rentals were conveniently located under their condos, in the area that had formerly been their individual garage ports.

Every morning Paulie left for work he would walk through the long twisting streets big enough for one vehicle to drive down, surrounded by a few hundred padlocked garage doors with no discernable difference between any of them other than the number above the door. He did not drive motor vehicles for no real reason, other than maybe he didn’t deem it necessary here in this small town.

In this Midland, just about everyone either drove their own gas-guzzling car or sold all-electric vehicles at their respective places of employ. But for Paulie, a two-mile hike in mostly moderate weather each day did wonders for his awkwardly pear-shaped body.

After so many years, he had this labyrinth memorized. He could navigate himself through the We-Store Storage Unit’s maze with his eyes closed if he wanted to.

And he sometimes did walk blindly through the maze to prove to himself that he could, assuming there were no customers present. Right now, he was busy juggling three-wheeled trash bins with two hands, awkwardly pulling them towards his home and the homes of his two neighbors, so he didn’t allow himself the added challenge of doing this with closed eyes.

Occasionally he’d see someone putting boxes into their own storage unit or pulling boxes out and loading them in their cars. Pieces of furniture, mattresses, always coming and going. Every night he returned, he’d float through the dimly lit semi-streets once more, only this time the only souls that passed through here was his gruff one-legged neighbor Niles, the elderly Edith, and the occasional minimum wage security guard. I think his name is Ken or Kyle or Cal, but he’s not important yet. Not until the end.

At the end of this labyrinth of two stories of garage doors you’d find the three homes at the end of the block. All three homes were located on the second story, with the first floor having been converted into storage units. Their former garage ports that they now paid a monthly fee to store their belongings in instead of owning outright.

Paulie didn’t mind losing his tiny garage port, but Niles did. That was my man-cave, Niles had argued a few years earlier. It was all I had! It was a pointless argument, Paulie knew, because technically We-Store had paid off their mortgages on the grounds that they paid full price for two storage units every month. One of those storage units being their old garages, and the other being an imaginary one where their homes currently sat. All and all, Paulie found it much more desirable to pay several thousand dollars less every year just to have fewer neighbors.

Not that he had many problems with his neighbors before the conversion, as he typically kept to himself. Niles and Edith, his neighbors of six years to his north and south, had simply become constants in his home life. Niles would gripe, and Edith would dote. Niles was the kind of man who would rather die with his blue jeans on, one leg and all, and Edith was the kind of lady who would fall in love with a man like that in a prior lifetime.

As he got closer to the end of the gated facility, he heard Niles’ 80’s hair metal music from half a block away. If you could call it a block.

When he turned the last corner, he saw the third to last storage unit door wide open, with vape-smoke billowing out just as visible as the Metallica was audible.

Niles poked his head out, his bald head glistening like a freshly waxed bowling ball and greeted Paulie by pointing at him and glaring down his finger as if it were a gun with sights. His typical greetings, mind you. Paulie just lifted his limp left hand in a loose wave as he made his way towards the staircase past the three storage units. He added a fake, nervous smile at the end, to feign friendliness.

Paulie saw that Niles was balancing on his Monday Leg as he had called it.

Niles was in his own world beyond that acknowledgement. Just an old biker listening to his music, throwing his darts at the back wall of his storage unit, mostly pricking the drywall with tiny needle marks instead of hitting the board itself. He had a light beer in hand, and his oversized vape cartridge sticking out of his T-shirt sleeve like some sort of technologically advanced greaser. He used to spend most of his time at the biker bars down in Chumquah Flats but that was before he lost his good leg. That, and the local watering hole didn’t quite tickle his fancy.

With his peg-leg and his pirate-like drunken sway, you’d expect a parrot on his shoulder. Instead, there sat an oversized snail about the size of a soggy, squishy grapefruit, deflated, who seemed to be stretching its eyes towards the vapor cloud Niles was exhaling.

Paulie didn’t know much about the man, but he knew he had the snail for longer than Paulie had owned his condo. Why, though, he did not know.

The overwhelming smell of the fruity fog tickled Paulie’s nose as he strolled past his own closed garage door, with the number 102 above it. To himself and no one else, Paulie wondered if pet snails could grow addicted to nicotine like anything else. Surely if beagles and chimpanzees could, why not Niles’ disgusting lil’ companion?

Past that was Edith’s garage door, the contents within he never knew nor hardly pondered as he went up the stairs. He walked by the closed-curtained windows of his elderly neighbor’s apartment, the last on the block. Beyond her was the end of the line, with nothing but a fence. Past that, a water tower. Without saying hello to Edith, he continued towards the second to last apartment on the block. His own.

He’d lie if he ever told you he was happy here, but Paulie Galamb wasn’t much of a liar.

He wasn’t happy. He was complacent. He was reminded of this every time he entered his empty home, as his wife of five whole years had left him for the same reason they had first agreed to wed. The dust on the motivational posters that covered his otherwise bare walls had grown thick, layers of dead skin and Paulie-particulates stacked on themselves, and he found himself unmotivated to clean it off.

Inside his condominium of complacency, there were no photographs of himself, nor were there any mirrors. When he brushed his once perfect teeth, perfect before the bastard wisdom tooth muddled up his already unpleasant face, he did so without staring at his reflection. This was by design, as both Paulie and the former Toni Galamb both acknowledged that they were not pleasing to the eyes. When he dressed himself for work, when he worked, he did so without confirming his appearance in any mirror. As long as he saw his shoes were on the right feet, the buttons all buttoned correctly, he was content. Consistency being key to his complacency.

He pulled the red lollipop out and tossed it in the recycling bin next to the trash can next to his dining room table that had plastic flowers on it, caked in dust thicker than the dust on the poster with the kitten that reminded him to hang in there. Hang in where? he sometimes contemplated, with the voice in his head responding, Here. Here in the condominium-turned-storage facility, next to the only people he dared call barely friends, next to the only neighbors he had left.

Paulie noticed that Niles had turned his music down, revealing that Edith had her television volume cranked up to previously compensate. The not-so-recently deceased Alex Trebek was in the other room telling three contestants whether or not their questions were the correct ones to his answers. A man named Anton stood behind one pedestal, Klaus behind another, and someone named Afro behind the third. They were important, of course, but not as important as the search for a new Trebek. This was after a year of failed guest hosts didn’t attract the ratings television execs sought, so they just went back to old reruns of Trebek and his digital ghost. If I could bring him back, I would. I swear to you.

(Maybe in the next story, Hedasky.)

He wouldn’t bother knocking on her door to let her know the volume was too loud, because she was likely too deaf to hear his knocks, or fast asleep herself. That, and occasionally he liked to pretend to play along with Alex and his three contestants. Paulie didn’t own a television, so he got his Jeopardy fix through these thin walls.

It was here, sandwiched between Jeopardy and Metallica, where Paulie considered the piece of paper in his pocket. His little gift from the dentist he had only seen thrice before. He didn’t consider the lollipop in the recycling bin, or his poor aim when he threw it there and not in the trash bin.

He read the chicken scratch scrawl of the dentist and said the word Oncologist out loud between the cacophony of noise to his north and south. He said it over and over again while pacing inside his mirrorless abode. Oncologist. Paulie paced from end to end of his condo, from east to west. from the sliding glass door that went to a segmented porch in the back he never used, through the kitchenette, past the dining room-ish, and into the micro-living room. Oncologist. From the barely audible Metallica of his northern neighbor to the overly loud Jeopardy of the old woman to his south. On-call-oh-jist, Paulie said one final time before the semantic satiation stole the definition from his mental dictionary.

Absentmindedly he added, What is the medical profession for someone who specializes in cancer? to no one in particular. The voice of the ghost of Trebek affirmed this.

This is a no-shoe house, his ex-wife used to say, and out of habit he barely obliged. Paulie kicked his shoes off in the middle of his living room and made his way toward his dueling mini fridges in the kitchenette. One sat on top of the faux marble countertop that ran along the north wall, and the other sat in a pocket under the cabinet where once upon a time a dishwasher formerly lived. The one above contained the man’s neutral foods, his plain seltzer waters, his gruel.

These were the foods he’d usually eat and prepare for himself every morning, for every lunch, while he worked. Flavorless nothing, as plain as plain could be, so as to not spoil his palette while he tested various new foods at Pea Tree Farms. Plain rice, unseasoned quinoa, unbuttered grits, a slurry of nearly gelatinous briquettes of oatmeal, unflavored corncakes, et cetera. All prepared and packaged in sealed Ziploc bags by the wonderfully bored Edith Post. All she ever asked was for help taking her trash-bins to the curb on Sunday, and return them on Monday, which he had just done.

The other fridge contained the foods he purged on in secret when he was done working for the weekend. The floor fridge was filled with little cardboard trays with segregated portions of mashed potatoes with artificial frozen pads of butter on top, next to a tray of overly salted green beans, next to a slab of ground-beef-themed meatloaf covered in some form of brown gravy. TV dinners. His cheat meals.

If Pea Tree Farms was the company that was going to revolutionize the future of the food world, then these TV Dinners were the ones who had done it in the past. Banquet’s Meat Loaf Platter, Stouffer’s Salisbury Steak with Gravy, Hungry Man Select’s Mac-And-Cheese Dinner. Where Pea Tree Farms was reinventing the meat industry, these former giants had long ago reinvented the meal.